Adult Poems

Panic Stations. . . What is the meaning Of the panic attacks, The sudden turbulence Of quickened fear and doubt. Everything is just the same As it was yesterday And all the days before And all the days before that. . .

Up On The Moors. . . There is great beauty on the moors, The pull of the open expanse The call of real emptiness. There are still secrets there Far above the steepled streets Where people sit down together To eat their Hovis bread And frighten each other With tales of real monsters On Movietone […]

Figure Of A Man. . . It was a strange day To sit under the special tree Crushing down the summer grass Deep within cool shade. I saw a dark figure in the distance At the far edge of the field Standing quite motionless. When I looked again later It seemed to be much nearer […]

The Woods. . It’s a quiet world tonight Looking out onto the woods, No shine at all from the moon Just shadows as far as the eye can see. I wonder what is moving out there Deep within the tree line, Perhaps only the smallest creatures Hiding away from the dangers of the night. . […]

Night Time. . . These quiet hours are filled with the ticking of the clock, trying hard to persuade me that the night is passing by. It seems like a con trick, while I lie here staring like a patient scryer, for the length of days it takes to pass the time contained within one […]

Throwback. . . On a chill autumn day Walking down by the river, There was a sudden awareness Of height and muscular breadth, A smooth and masterful stride, Of long yellow hair flowing back. People clustered closely behind But too afraid to overtake. Arm raised up to receive the bird That plummeted back towards the […]

Don’t Talk Crap. . . Don’t you try to tell me That everything is due to change, Don’t tell me that you think It is like the roll of a dice. We are here in this moment Because all possible roads Could only have led us here To this place where we finally stand. Holding […]

Those Were The Days. . . Such tiny things can bring pleasure. As I turn into my Nan’s yard I can smell the familiar aroma Of scones, drifting through From the widely opened back door Where she stands in the kitchen Dressed in a flowery pinny Making scones just for me. She turns, with a […]